12/6/11

Jonathan is most inspired by the comedy of Andy Griffith and Ellen Degeneres, but basically wants to be Jay Leno when he grows up. In his free time, he loves to get a sugar high on sparkling apple cider, dance to the Beatles (just not their druggy stuff) with the volume really loud, and play Kirby for hours and hours. He is very excited with his new position since he loves to make people laugh and is confident in his abilities and legendarily incredible sexual potency. A former Boy Scout, he is also adept at building fires and knitting. His favorite color is blue, his favorite cheese is Swiss, and he is enthusiastic about socks. Jonathan disapproves somewhat of the film “Johnny Boy,” but he would not object if you were to call him that ;p

The editors of the Ampersand would like to sincerely apologize for the low-brow humor that has graced the back page of the Argus over the recent months. We hereby pledge to promote only upbeat, “humor-positive” content from this point on.

We want to apologize in particular for the article titled “Cock-Sucking and You: A Freshman’s Guide to Dicklicking”. This sexual manual featuring graphic descriptions of the shaft, taint, scrotum, and anus and how best to manipulate them both orally and with a variety of sexual toys, including something called the “Clinical Tip Flicker,” was simply too extreme.

The Ampersand also seriously regrets the photo that was published in the October 18th issue, in which a completely naked Rupert Murdoch appears to be violating a three-toed sloth with one hand while simultaneously performing an unprintable act with a bowl of macaroni and cheese with the other.
Finally, our sincerest apologies for the video piece known as “A Tub of Whipped Cream, a Broken Ceiling Fan, a Box-Cutter, A Box of Q-tips, Two Cats, and What I’m Going to Do to Them.” Frankly, even we aren’t sure why the police weren’t called as soon as the first cat was discovered.

Again, we wish to apologize profusely for printing such filth and promise to bring you only the finest in clean, fun humor that doesn’t involve sexual, bestial, or shaving cream-related content.

Recent showings at the Goldsmith Family Cinema have not been very family-oriented! Last week they showed “Taxi Driver,” a movie that includes prostitutes, violence, and mohawk haircuts. And those meretricious Technicolor movies? More like “Meet Me in St. Lewdest.”

The Ampersand would like to propose a new standard for film screenings. First and most obviously, no R-rated movies. Second, the students running the film series (who are too sassy when they tell us to turn off our phones! watch your tone) should check for IDs when screening PG-13 films. Finally, an idea that should not be provocative: a good old-fashioned G-rated movie. None of those bawdy Pixar movies, either.

How about “Big”? Yes, there’s some salacious material, but it stars the ever-charming Tom Hanks, who can do no wrong in our books. Wesleyan could also screen “Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties,” which we’ve been meaning to see.

The Ampersand hopes that the film board will clean up its act. That’s what movies are for: bringing people together by not offending anyone.

It’s that time of year again: Beta and the Wesleyan Administration are at odds. No, the members of the fraternity are not seceding. They are building an ark.

The scandal erupted on Sunday when Public Safety Officer Nat Adams responded to a noise complaint regarding Beta. When he arrived on the scene, Officer Adams discovered a partially built wooden boat in the lot behind the building. Several Beta members were hard at work nailing boards to the unfinished hull. Officer Adams confiscated their hammers and reported the incident to the university.

Thaddeus Gleg ’12, the self-proclaimed “Noah-up-in-here,” says that he was told to build the ark by a deity.

“I was doing a keg stand last year,” Gleg said, “when the keg started talking to me. At first I thought it was just the ’shrooms mixing badly with being suspended upside down, but after a while I thought, ‘Wow, this shit is real!’”

The scandal really took off when Officer Adams investigated further. Incarcerated in the basement were groups of students, among which were two members of Eclectic, two from DKE, a pair of Rebeccas (“That one was easy,” Gleg elaborated. “They were roommates in the Bayit.”) two transsexual students, and two Brown students (“We really didn’t want them,” Gleg said, “but the keg insisted.”). Also present was a small cage containing two black squirrels.

“We realized as we were filling the keg’s quotas that many of these groups won’t be able to reproduce after the apocalypse,” said Moisés Rockwell ’13, “so we’re not really sure what the divine plan is. But, hey, it’s not our job to question the keg.” (Rockwell also wishes to inform Officer Adams that he wants his hammer back.)

Gleg is unsure how President Roth will respond to the exposure of Beta’s activities, but he is unworried.

“The keg was interested in him,” Gleg said, “but since there’s only one of him, the keg said he’ll probably go the way of the unicorns.”

Theory

You are sitting in a room that presumably has other people in it (but perhaps not), holding the newest edition of the Wesleyan Ampersand. You may have noticed by now that this week’s Ampersand is laid out so that it looks something like a cheap imitation of Wikipedia articles, which is a cheap gimmick mildly humorous in itself (perhaps warranting a chuckle, if you’re into visual gags), which gimmick in turn serves as a cheap vehicle for slightly more humorous jokes that almost invariably, when they are on the verge of falling flat, rely on the cheapest humor of all: the “fuck” word. (If you have not noticed this basic layout yet, we suggest you try masturbating and watching Jersey Shore [though not necessarily at the same time—we wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself] as forms of entertainment in the future.)

Personal Life

Pay no attention to the headings. They’re just there to distract you. You may have noticed at this point is that this article is decidedly unfunny. You may even have a sneaking feeling that someone (the author, once you think about it) is having a laugh at your expense—he is positively delighted that he’s gotten you to keep passing your eyes over the symbols he has arranged in a purposefully unfunny (and rather irritating) order because he knows that you expect this page, and the articles it comprises, to be funny, and that therefore you are both (a) more likely to see humor where there is none, since you’re in a humor-receptive state of mind, and (b) willing to read an article that doesn't seem funny at first because you assume that it will become funny later on.

By now you ought to have realized that there’s something a bit disconcerting about your previous realizations, which disconcertion arises primarily from the inchoate concept that you weren’t so much realizing things as having them dictated to you—that as you read you realized certain things because what you were reading was telling you that you were realizing those things. Not only is that disconcerting, but it’s also a bit frightening, because it challenges your intelligence, and another of those sneaky sneaking feelings is arising within you, and this one has to do with the fact that you are realizing that you are at the mercy of an intelligence decidedly more intelligent than yours, which is always a discomforting sensation, but what’s more is that something which you ought to be in complete control of(reading) now in fact has control of you, as evidenced by the fact that you’re still here, reading these words. And you consider putting down the Ampersand as a way of regaining control…but you don’t do that, because you want to bull through to the end so that you can then make fun of it and thereby regain control, because, after all, this is a humor article that fails at its purpose, which is of course humor… but perhaps it’s all been calculated so extensively and precisely that you really are caught in a dense and endless web that you don’t even see—except when I show it to you.

11/8/11

10/18/11

The editors of the Wesleyan Ampersand would like to wish you a relaxing and sensual Fall Break. But remember, don’t eat too much Fall foliage! Also, tune in to the latest episode of our new podcast, Cannibal Lunchtime With Piers and Zach, in which we devour a member of our staff. It’s not who you think!

One morning after falling asleep at his desk, Gregor Hamza woke up to find himself turned into a hamster. Though he now had fur covering his body, tiny arms and legs, no neck, and measured approximately half a foot tall, he was not troubled. For he soon happened upon the half-eaten bowl of ramen he had left on his desk and discovered that it took only a few miniscule bites, seized in his new-formed paws, to sate his appetite for the rest of the day.

He had discovered the remedy for world hunger.

Though the hamster is a noble creature, it took time for Gregor to adjust to his new form. Once he had learned how to climb down from the desk and squeeze under the door to his room, he discovered he was hungry again. Gregor had never been popular as a human. Scurrying around outside, he found that everyone wanted to be his friend.

“Hey dude! Lookin’ adorable today!” called his friend Adam, who was a douchebag. Adam gifted tiny Gregor with a single Frito. And as Gregor leapt up to give him a wee high-five, in a puff of smoke, Adam was swiftly transformed into a hamster as well. “Dude… what… Come back. I AM A HAMSTER.”

Gregor was not listening. Gregor had scampered off toward Susie, the girl of his dreams, also a prominent social activist on campus. “You’re the one who did it! You solved world hung–!” she cried, lifting up Gregor as she would a prized trophy. But before she could finish her sentence, she had been turned into a blond hamster, the prettiest rodent in all the land.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Asia, the Director watched the scene in a crystal ball and knitted his hands. The hamster food industry would never again be a humble enterprise!

I like to make this one right when I wake up so that I can munch on it all day. I even take some to the gym in a Ziploc!

TO STEWE STEKES OF MUTTON: Take funges, & pare hem clene and dyce hem. Take leke, & shred hym small & do hym to seeth in gode broth. Color it with safron, & do there-inne powder-fort. Take a legge of mutton and cot it in small slices, & put it in a chafer, & put therto a pottell of ale, & scome it cleane then putte therto seven or eyghte onions thyn slyced, & after they have boyled one hour, putte therto a dyshe of swete butter, & so lette them boyle tyll they be tender, and then put therto a lyttel peper and salte. Tak cheryes & do out the stones & grynde hem wel & draw hem thorw a streynour & do it in a pot. & do therto whit gres or swete botere & myed wastel bred, & cast therto good wyn & sugre, & salte it & stere it wel togedere, & dresse it in disches; and set theryn clowe gilofre, & strewe sugre aboue.*

*Medieval people would only have eaten this well on a Saint’s Day!

I Am Sitting In A Kitchen
Cooking with Alvin Lucier

I call this recipe “Pasta of Indeterminacy.” Does anybody know why this recipe would be called “Pasta of Indeterminacy”? Well, you would have to know a little bit about the history of this recipe. Back in 1963, I was eating grilled flounder sandwiches with my dear friend John Cage when John turned to me and said, “Alvin, what do you say we submerge a box of pasta upside down in a pool of rapeseed oil filled with floating koala bears and then record the vibrations that ensue and play the tape backwards in unison with Beethoven’s Fifth?” and I said, “Why, John, that is a wonderful idea.” Isn’t that marvelous? It sounded just marvelous. Let me tell you a story about “Pasta of Indeterminacy.” Robert Ashley cooked “Pasta of Indeterminacy” for the first time in 1967 for his wife Pamela during her second pregnancy: he simply left a box of pasta uncooked on the counter and subjected it to chance operations. He called it “prepared pasta.” Do you know what he did then? He then placed weather stripping, pennies, bolts, wood, rubber, and slit bamboo to change the sound of spicy Newman’s tomato sauce. What a lovely idea! In my recipe, the cook is surrounded by a large number of kitchen utensils which are represented by a circular score and comprise a fruitful and exciting sound palette. He then sits stationary at the table for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, simply allowing the aleatoric particles of the air to sift in and out of his tonsils at chance. What a marvelous dish.

My Dinner with Jeanine
Cooking with Jeanine Basinger

This is my special meatloaf recipe. I call it Meat Me in St. Louis.
First, take a look at your cooking surface. Are the colors evenly balanced? If not, does this imbalance serve to create tension or suspense? Once you have considered this in terms of function and effect, proceed.
The key ingredient in Meat Me is an extremely rare form of black truffle. There is a two-year waitlist to receive one, but don’t worry, it’s worth it!
Is it two years later? Do you have the 8 1/2 grams of the mushroom? Excellent. Now, dice the truffle and add salt and pepper à la Remy in Ratatouille. Mix ground beef and two bottles of ketchup in a large mixing bowl, being sure to keep your stirring motion on only one side of the bowl so as to not break the 180 degree rule.
High-angle close up on the mixture. Zoom in. If you see any lumps, keep stirring.
Don’t be afraid to experiment; be an auteur! Some of the most acclaimed meatloaves ever made were misunderstood in their time.

Note: this recipe can only be prepared between the hours of 10 am and 2 pm on Wednesdays.

Reacting against the current enthusiasm for all things local and sustainable, a group of Wesleyan enthusiasts have formed a club devoted to obtaining the hardest-to-get foods on the planet. “It’s kind of like an extreme sport,” says Dylan Halls ’13. “But instead of climbing mountains we roast young koalas in their mother’s pouches and smother that in a fine sauce of shark eggs and Arctic-circle lingonberries. It doesn’t even taste that good. We just love the thrill of the chase.”

Halls is a founding member of ‘WesDecadence: Meet Locally, Eat Globally,’ the latest food-interest group on campus. “On the one hand, I understand the impulse to be responsible about our consumption and its consequences,” says sophomore Francine McDonnell. “On the other hand, I want to eat fucked-up shit that’s super rare.” Last Friday McDonnell hosted a WesDecadence feast using only produce from remote Pacific islands. “The endangered fruit bats were sauteed in New Zealand Takehe eggs, a bird thought extinct from 1898 to 1948. I’m proud of that one.”

Funding for the group comes from the SBC, which begrudgingly admits that extreme anti-local eating qualifies as a recreational interest. “Besides, we offer vegan options,” says one member. “I fried chick peas in olive oil recovered from a Byzantine archaeological dig in Galilee. Tasted okay.” The same meal, which was Ancient World-themed, concluded in a pomegranate compote over goat’s milk sorbet. The pomegranate was smuggled out of a remote Iraqi site reputed to be the Garden of Eden. “I feel like possibly eating from the tree of knowledge has really boosted my academic confidence,” said another member, hard at work on a thesis. “Nothing can touch me now.”

Still, the hobby has its drawbacks. “I’ve definitely had trouble getting exotic ingredients shipped to campus,” says Halls. “At first it was hard to get in contact with people who had power and know-how in risky places — you know, like the Iranian highlands, Chechnya, parts of Papua New Guinea that haven’t been exposed to civilization, deep Amazon regions, the Congo, Uighur lands, North Korea. But now I have a really good network. Very grassroots. I’m currently being investigated by the FDA, the USDA, the DEA, and the FBI, because of the packages, but I think that’ll blow over.” He mentioned an instance in which elephant seal blubber began to decompose in the package room, producing an “unbelievably rank, disgusting” odor like “feces and burning plastic,” but dismisses that as a bureaucratic mix-up. “They didn’t specify a WesBox number. I told them, always write the WesBox number.”

Last Saturday WesDecadence hosted their first ever cocktails event. It featured a barrel of rum recovered from the colonial Triangle Trade, Kumis (fermented mare’s milk from Mongolia), and the Cask of Amontillado, which “tastes like Dubra.” The main course, paired with the drinks, was a Van Gogh sketch soaked in maple syrup, but it had to be discarded so the club’s members could make the film series. This coming Friday they plan to spit-roast a mummy.

10/11/11

10/4/11

The esteemed editors of the Ampersand would like to congratulate Argus Editor-In-Chief Erin Newport on her eighteenth arrest, which took place this weekend. This is the first time she’s ever been arrested on a bridge, unless you count her arrest in Bridge City, TX, though it is in fact a city, not a bridge.

The night was dark as coal, the fog thick as Muhammad’s beard, when I emerged from the ‘haunted’ brick building near Long Lane Farm. Its lonely stone towers overlook the vast, overgrown fields of the Freeman Athletic Center, but its supernatural mysteries had been rooted in mere charlatanism — just some harmless Psi U brothers enacting dark Satanic rituals.

There’ll be no more cat mutilations ’round this part of town, I thought to myself, brushing the dirt from my hands. As I stepped to the curb, a pair of amber headlights cut through the fetid darkness: Wesleyan’s Ride! I sighed with relief and flagged it down, barely noticing the exceedingly strange script adorning its door.

Only when I found myself overpowered by the smells of hookah smoke, unwashed bodies, and myrrh did I realize I had boarded the wrong Ride. Too late I remembered Dave Meyer’s stern campus-wide email cautioning us against the folly of entering unlicensed “Gypsy” Rides: “The University cannot be certain of students’ well-being while inside one of these vehicles,” he had penned, “and the vendors are not equipped to accept Middletown Cash.” The van’s door slid shut behind me — and our ramshackle ride had already trundled off into the inky black.

“Good night,” insisted the mustachioed driver. “My name Yanko. You pay twelve drachma now.” He deposited a wad of tobacco-infused phlegm into the brass spittoon wedged next to the gearshift.

I peered into the hazy darkness at the rear of the van, where I could make out the silhouettes of a Sikh, a Berber crone clutching a jar, two goats, and a beautiful young woman moaning in a low voice, swaddled in blankets. The travelers all huddled around a bubbling stew pot.

“In my country, such a word is unspeakable,” he growled. “Men die for less.”

“Sorry, sir!” I exclaimed in terror. “What I meant to say was… I like your turban.”

The Sikh slowly released the pressure on my throat. “Fine,” he said, “but next time, I take your testes.”

I turned back to Yanko. “Pearl,” I said. “I just want to go to Pearl.”

Yearning for home, I turned to the window. Vast sand dunes stretched in every direction. This was a part of Middletown into which I had never ventured before.

Suddenly, the blanket-wrapped woman gave a great gasp, followed by the shrill cry of a newborn soul. She raised her new daughter, still dripping with womby fluids, so that the infant’s tiny eyes met her own.

We were on the roof of Middletown and all we could do was yell, I guess. We were up all night rolling around that crazy loop, yelling “Go, man, go,” bee-bop sounding out on ahead along the fabulous stretch of Williams Street, past Marco’s, past that incense place, past the grilled cheese cart, the too-huge sky vaulting out over our heads. The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to Ride, mad to visit both falafel carts in one night, mad to visit that one other cart by the Bayit that serves pretty good hot dogs, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like a firecracker that goes poof-kapow-zam-zing-wah-bang out on along across the wide star-dotted skies of Central Connecticut.

He beheld the even fall of the onfalling evening’s slow succourous sussurus, the earlyevening light falling evenly over the mutinous WestCo mulchpile, over the scrotumtightening Butthole weeds, falling faintly and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, on all the Nics and the Butts.

A Universal History of the Ride, by Jorge Luis Borges

During a short bus ride from Olin Library to Science Library, I sipped mate with a Uruguayan gaucho named Ibn Al-Ulmar, a hard-bitten Arabian rancher who had squandered his money in the hard-bitten brothels and tango halls of Buenos Aires and Montevideo.

“Lie down on the floor between the seats,” he told me. “Press your knees against your chest, and look between your legs. You will see the past, the present, the future, and the entire physical contents of the universe compressed to a single point.”

Heeding his words, I assumed this position. At first, all I could see was beige upholstery. After a few moments, I saw a point of blinding light. Then red, then nothing.

“You, Borges, will surely see,” said Al-Umar, as he plunged his knife again into my ribs, “that History and Time are the true custodians of wealth.”

Catcher in the Ride, by J.D. Salinger

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll want to know is that some phony pulled up to the curb of Church and High and told me to get in. What a goddamn phony. I mean, I told him to take me all the way to Indian Hill because you can never get really sexy with a girl in a Fauver triple, I mean, really sexy, but he wouldn’t even take me past DKE. Goddamn DKE. It always ends up making me blue as hell. That really kills me. It really does. I mean, I asked him where all the DKE bros go in winter — have you ever seen a DKE bro in winter? Do they still wear those phony Adidas sandals? — but he just got real touchy about that and told me he had other passengers to pick up, and anyways Sally was waiting for me at Indian Hill. Goddamn girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. I mean, those Rho Ep girls really get me hot. Where do they go in the winter?

Last week, the popular MTV show Pimp My Ride confirmed what many fans had suspected all season: one of the Wesleyan Ride vans will be the show’s next “pimped out” car, ending its career as a domestic transportation vehicle.

“It’s going to be hard for all of us,” said longtime driver Gerald Hotchkins at the taping of the show. “We’ve been through a lot together, but I guess that this ol’ girl had this coming. Shelly,” he said, turning towards the van, “I hope you never forget where you came from.”

The car, which traces its alluring lineage back to a 1983 Chevrolet Express and a 1974 Ford Econoline, is expected to be “the sexiest thing to ever hit a Middletown street corner.”

“There’s a lot of aftermarket parts in this baby,” said technician Charles S. Werthing, who designed the paint job and customized weave. “Despite being a total mess when we got it, everything was running smoothly internally, if you know what I mean. We put on the red and black stripes at the last minute to match the custom 28” chrome Pirellis, and we added xenon fog headlights. We were going to install a blacklight in the back, but the seats looked like a black and white Jackson Pollack painting so we went with the goldfish tank.”

Due to Wesleyan’s new environmental regulations, Ride vans must have a minimal carbon footprint. Accordingly, the addition of a nitrous-oxide fuel injector was explicitly prohibited and the van’s route was restricted to “Court and Williams St. between 1 and 5 A.M”.

“Though we couldn’t put the blue flame stuff in the exhaust pipes, I’m pretty happy with Xzibit’s work,” said Charlie Greengould, Class of 2013. “Sure, it may not do 0-60 in five seconds, but taking the ride isn’t about quantity, its about quality. Last time I took the ride, I only lasted maybe twenty seconds."

“Pimping the ride is a great opportunity for both the school and MTV,” said WSA representative Emilius Miles ‘13 as mechanics gave the car a thorough waxing and added numerous decals, prepping it for life on the streets of Middletown. “So many cars end up as scrap metal, or being sold to wealthy gentleman who mistreat them — all of that is inhumane.”

Added Miles, “Letting the van drive around Middletown during the good weather, enjoying the best care that Connecticut has to offer, sipping on only premium diesel, and being mounted over and over again until the odometer rolls over... that’s a life any van would love.”

9/27/11

The editors of the Ampersand would like to issue a correction regarding last week’s issue. In an article about a fictional Fauver freshman, we used the name Matt Timmons ’15, which, we were surprised to learn, actually belongs to a current senior, Matt Timmons ’12. We have no evidence that Timmons ’12 “splooged on [his] floor,” as did the fictional Timmons, but we also have no evidence to the contrary.

Last week, WILD Wes members discovered an entrance to the Hidden World, the realm of the molemen. The find took all those present by surprise, including the moleman standing guard.

“It’s bad enough to be digging and suddenly come across a hairless, blind mole person,” recalled Harriet Moss ’14. “But when they start to secrete a protective mucus all over your shoes, it can be really tricky to maintain your composure.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” said Dicke Driphole, the moleman in question. “Bitch was asking for it, hitting me on the head with the shovel like that.”

The WILD Wes members were initially wary as more molemen emerged from the tunnel, shielding their eyes from the harsh sunlight. Public Safety was initially fearful that conflict would ensue between the surface dwellers and those who lurk below, and remained wary, circling the opening on their Segways, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. But it soon became clear that they meant no harm.

“There was good reason to be careful, as there’s ample evidence of such things occurring,” claimed professor of anthropology Alan Faulkner. “As recently as 1983, uncovering passages to the World Below has resulted in deadly fighting. Granted, that incident was in Thailand and rather than molemen, they uncovered overgrown meat-weasels, but you can never be too careful in situations like this.”

Rather than laying waste to the community of polyamorous hippies, the molemen have only gone so far as to occupy the WestCo café, citing the “comforting moistness and general cavernous feel of the space.”

“The Dominion of the Molemen is a paternalistic hegemony,” claims Esther Greaseskin, one of the group of molemen occupying the WestCo café. “It’s right there in the name. We’re looking to collaborate with your department of gender studies to come up with a more gender neutral name for our species. Not moleperson, because that just sounds stupid, but maybe something more along the lines of ‘moledividual’.”

“I’ll talk with them about it, but not in my office,” said professor of gender studies Abigail Rawlins. “They are slimy as shit, and I don’t want that all over my carpet.”

Members of WILD Wes, the student group that emerged last year to promote sustainable landscape design, have secured from the administration a $50,000 grant to redesign Occupy Wall Street’s temporary occupation of Foss Hill.

“Our long-term goal is to convert these three tents into sustainable, organic groundcover without getting too much topsoil on Anwar,” says WILD Wes cofounder Sim Salver ’12. “We figure this whole shebang will be more ecologically sound if we just keep dumping permaculture on everyone.”
Members of WILD Wes expressed concern regarding Occupy Wall Street’s “self-destructive fondness for wholly unsustainable conversation topics.”

“If these guys say one more thing about the corporate personhood currency phallus, I am going to explode,” Marge Helvetica ’14 warned.

Last weekend, WILD Wes representatives trailed Occupy Wall Street members to their New York protest site to prevent the group from spreading beech bark disease in Manhattan’s financial district. “We even convinced some group members to help us dig swales on Fulton Street,” Salver reported. “Those things really help funnel New York’s perennial biochar sheet-mulch rejuvenation.”

WILD Wes hopes to seek further assistance from Occupy Wall Street in reaching its environmental aims.

“We thought it would be tough to convert these protesters to our cause, but it was super easy,” one WILD Wes member assures. “These dudes will shovel anything if you tell them it’s the best way to fight the corporate fascist plutocracy cookie monster.”

The twelve long-haired, fair-trade-coffee-drinking friends who constituted the core of WildWes moved into a house on campus to greenify the WestCo courtyard. It sounded innocent enough. But when the rest of the Wesleyan community returned to campus this fall, the leaders of WildWes were irreversibly, markedly changed.

Gone were the “chill vibes,” the sandals, and the passionate environmentalist rhetoric that once distinguished WildWes leaders from their peers. The leaders of WildWes were now stressing out about course registration, rocking boat shoes, and explaining to a shocked campus their new plan for the courtyard: to turn the space into a miniature lacrosse field. The presidents of Westco were too stunned to offer immediate comment.

“I just really wish I hadn’t wasted my time on all those studio art and creative writing classes,” WildWes leader Ike Fug ’12 said between appointments at the Career Resource Center. “There’s no way I can get all the credits I need at this point to get into a top tier business school.”

When asked about his environmentalist ambitions, Fug shrugged and said, “Honestly, coal and oil provide so many jobs that are crucial to the American economy. We need to focus on saving Main Street right now, not Wall Street.” Fug continued to digress, intoning various unrelated political clichés.

Theories as to what instigated this dramatic change abound: some believe the WildWes students fell under the sway of a particularly right-wing MoCon gremlin. Others speculate that they unearthed and smoked a stash that had been buried in the courtyard for far too long. Still others blame interactions with radioactive grasshoppers. The actual events remain a mystery.

As we begin our third week of school, Usdan empties, flowers wilt, and toilets clog as everyone feels things once new and exciting lose their gild and fall into daily routine. Everyone, that is, except freshman Jessica Witnit, who recently discovered that for the past two weeks she has been attending Wesleyan University, not Wellesley College.

Disoriented by Hurricane Irene, Witnit arrived on campus and mistakenly registered as Jennifer Nitwit ’15. She proceeded to move into and share Nitwit’s room, the crowdedness of which both ascribed to high enrollment. Without space for another bed, Witnit and Nitwit had no choice but to spoon every night.

“We became really close,” Nitwit mumbled blushingly.

Dean Goel Narrett finally cleared up the problem after a meeting with the two freshmen.

“Subsisting on only one WesID, Jessica and Jennifer came in to meet with me when they ran out of meal swipes on Thursday,” disclosed a somber Garrett. “It’s very unfortunate, but we’re actually quite used to this sort of mix-up, so I was not unprepared.”

With Nitwit’s discovery has come a swell of students realizing that they aren’t at Wesleyan College, Wilbrahem Wesleyan Academy, or other schools that share Wesleyan’s nomenclature, including a fifth year Senior who just figured out that he was not in Ohio.

As Nitwit prepares to start the school year afresh, she does have some reservations.

“While I am excited to have my own identity again,” Nitwit said, “I’ve kind of gotten used to having a bed buddy.”

9/20/11

The editors (of The Ampersand (the premiere humor publication of The Argus (Wesleyan University’s premiere news (and entertainment and generally interesting information) publication) and (really) the best part of said news publication (TheArgus)) want you to know that they uphold the highest standards of grammar and syntax.

Amanda Palmer ’98 wasted no time reliving her carefree college days last Friday: within an hour of arriving on campus, the Dresden Dolls’ frontwoman had signed up for the Wesleyan cheese co-op “just for nostalgia’s sake.”

According to Government Professor Richard Price, a war between the United States of America and the Russian Federation would play out exactly like a video game.

“Basically, we’d be up Shit Creek,” Price explained.

Price has never actually been to Russia, but he is able to claim many hours of “extensive internet research” and Call of Duty to support his assertions.

“These games are based on literally hours of research, so it’s safe to assume that what they portray could really happen, like when you chase that guy over a waterfall in a dinghy,” said Price.

Price is dubious about the United States’ fate should such a conflict materialize. He acknowledges the superiority of America’s military power and estimates about two months between the start of the conflict and reaching the Kremlin. And that’s when things get tricky.

“At that point,” he explained, “the only thing standing between us and victory is the one thing that can defeat us: Putin.”

Citing the Russian prime minister’s propensity for being portrayed “like a Bond villain” and the fact that he is the only world leader with his own judo move, Price postulated that Vladimir Putin could very well be the final boss that eats away all of the United States’ quarters, figuratively and literally.

“He’d be like the final boss of Killzone 2 but, like, times a hundred,” warned Price. “Teleporting all over the place and using a knife, then whipping out a huge gun that deals massive damage. I could see him easily exhausting our war effort right when we’ve made it to the finish line. And this is all assuming he doesn’t have cybernetic augmentations by this point.”

Price noted that the deciding factor of the war will be whether or not the Japanese are ultimately persuaded to fight alongside us.

“If we could enlist their mecha battalions and legions of pretty-boy swordsmen, we might be able to turn the tide and defeat Putin,” Price said. “But even then, it’s up in the air.”

AmeliaBedelia’15, an international student hailing from Not America, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“This country is fucked,” Bedelia said after the incident. “Am I losing my marbles? No, wait, they’re in my other pants.”

Bedila reportedly woke upon the wrong side of the bed at approximately 4:15 a.m. She suffered minor bruising and immediately sought out her Residential Advisor, Lucy Britt, ’14. Britt told her not to “cry over spilt milk” and went back to sleep.

“I just don’t know what is going on anymore,” Bedelia said. “In my country, spilling milk would be not only a waste, but a dishonor to my entire family. And what does that have to do with my fractured nose?”

During the few weeks that she has been in America, Bedelia’s eccentricities have led to minor altercations. During International Student Orientation (ISO), she allegedly released a rabid cat in her Nicholson dormitory.

“I mean sure, I let my cat out of the bag during ISO, but the poor thing was in a bag. Have you ever spent eight hours in a bag on a trans-Atlantic flight? I didn’t think so.”

According to friends, Bedelia is adjusting with difficulty.

“She’s starting to lose it a little, struggling to deal with jet-lag and with foreign idioms,” said her roommate Millicent Herf ’15. “But I think she’s a good fit. I mean, she’s going through a linguistic crisis, but at
this stage in the game, the ball is totally in her court.”

As a result of her friends’ support, Bedelia seems to slowly be getting a grip on life at Wesleyan.
“I’m learning a lot,” Bedelia said. “I stopped jumping guns and touching the bases at Andrus. Plus I haven’t bitten the hands of any Usdan staff this week.”

Added Bedelia, holding onto her second floor balcony, “I think I just may be getting the hang of this.”

I’m disgusted by the institution-endorsed entitlement of Wesleyan boys like you, whose woefully inadequate sandwiches have led to the creation of the godforsaken Usdan deli station to which I have been assigned.

“Make me a sandwich” is a phrase loaded with connotations. It is a trigger word in my personal history, and in the history of female oppression. When Catherine of Aragon was asked to make a sandwich, she punched Gregory de Casale in the scrotum. Virginia Woolf was once asked to make a sandwich and she waded into a river —

Hey, come back here!

I have repeatedly asked the Usdan staff to reposition me so that I will never again hear a male deliver this infernal command. But at the panini press they derided me with calls of “Squeeze it good!” At the Mongolian Grill, they shouted, “Char my meat!” The Grazin’ station was okay, butI didn’t particularly like standing in that part of the kitchen. So here I am at the sandwich station, and my contract stipulates that I am “not licensed to cut bread,” so do not even think about asking.

Despite his role in the phallocentric technocracy, perhaps I should make like Harry Truman and “get out of the kitchen.” But alas, I am a female, and so eternally damned to stand here.

9/13/11

A capella auditions getting you down? Can’t figure out which Rebecca to text, which to sext, and which to wish a happy Rosh Hashanah? Cisco Clean Access killing the vibe? Fear ye not: The Ampersand has got your back and pelvis!

Upon learning that they would be living in triples, many members of the class of 2015 were bummed about the potential lack of under-bed storage, or stressed about having to navigate the dynamics of living with two roommates. But the true discomfort of this situation has nothing to do with closet size: the increase in triples has led to an increase in uncomfortable, mediocre, and cringe-worthy threesomes.

“There’s so rarely a time when both of your roommates are out of the room,” says Jake Brown ’15, of Fauver. “I was hooking up with this girl on Friday night and Dirk [Nutt ’15, one of Brown’s roommates] just walked in and at the time I was like, ‘Well, if you’re gonna be here you might as well join in.’ Because of the special limitations, he literally had no other option.”

Brown regretted this decision when he sobered up the next morning. “It’s beyond awkward now,” he said. “When Dirk changes his shirt after lax practice… the sight of his abs brings up way too many memories that I haven’t really dealt with yet.”

Nutt has confirmed that the arrangement is very uncomfortable. Rather than spending ResLife’s $245 monetary compensation on textbooks and cereal, he and his roommates have spent it all on lube, lingerie, and the like.

“Our collective monetary compensation has been co-opted and subsumed by sexual compensation,” Nutt observed. “It’s both financially and physically draining.”

The room’s third occupant, Mark Yelt ’15, doesn’t quite know what to think.

This week, in a joint press conference called by the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection and the Wesleyan University Department of Environmental Science, researchers announced that the university’s population of Rebeccas has reached critical levels.

“Biologists have what’s known as a carrying capacity,” explained a grave Johan C. Varekamp, Professor of Earth and Environmental Science: “The physical characteristics of a habitat that put an upper limit on the number of organisms it can support. Data from the Office of the Registrar confirms that we have reached that point.”

“Shit’s about to hit the fan,” added Varekamp, gazing worriedly towards Clark Hall.
Scientists first suspected something was amiss when field biologists tranquilized and tagged a shockingly high number of Rebeccas during April’s WesFest. Though the Nicole and Rachel populations seemed stable, Rebeccas, Beccas, and even Beckys have experienced an exponential increase.

“They are multiplying,” explained Senior Associate Dean of Admissions Greg Pyke. “We admit one Rebecca, she spends the summer as a camp counselor telling everyone she is ‘Sooooo excited’ about going to Wesleyan. Three years later, another brood of applicants has gestated.”

According to the Connecticut DEP, Rebeccas have been forced onto Wesleyan’s habitat by deforestation and lower admission rates at Brown.

Many campus resources are buckling under the strain.

“Usdan was never designed to deal with this volume of Rebeccas,” said Bon Appetit Director of Communications Bonnie Azab Powell. “We go to local farms and their patches of organic snow peas have been picked clean. This has implications for the entire Middletown food web.”

“I now have three Rebecca Kleins in my student forum on Postcolonial Ghanian Puppeteering,” complained Ally Fontworth ’12. “And they keep showing up in the same pair of vintage slim straight 32-30 jeans.”

Some members of the Wesleyan community stand to benefit from the ecological paradigm shift. “Boys named Zach will soon be inundated whenever they venture to local watering holes,” reported Varekamp. “They will be set upon like a gazelle on the Savannah.”

But in a few short months, there won’t be enough boys named Zach for Rebeccas to take home to their parents, scientists fear.

The human cost of this overpopulation is very apparent already. “I went out to Psi U on Thursday and now I have like six Rebeccas in my Blackberry,” said Jake Griffith ’14. “One of them is my cousin, so sexting is now like playing incestuous Russian Roulette with my dick.”

University officials attempted to calm the public. “My office has been working with officials from the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, who tackled a similar problem with Elks in Yellowstone National Park,” said Director of Public Safety David Albert Meyer. “Reintroduction of the grey wolf is already underway in the West College courtyard.”

9/6/11

The beginning of the semester has arrived, and with it a heady miasma of intellectual stimulation and use of the word “hegemony.” It’s what your parents’ 200k would have wanted. As you dart off to your “colloquiua” and “seminars,” heed well the words that Grover Freschmann ’15 shared with us in Olin’s unisex basement restroom: “Will professors really get mad at you if you use a computer in their classes? I’ve been having this battle with a Tea Party asshole on ESPN.com comments and if I don’t keep responding, he’ll win.”

A blaring car alarm in the vicinity of the Junior Village parking lot sent dozens of concerned students and locals rushing to the scene of the crime, where they were able to identify and prevent an automobile theft in progress. The heroic group performed a citizens’ arrest of Brad Arnolds, 34, detaining him until the Middletown Police Department arrived

The alarm first sounded at 8:34AM on Monday, rousing many from their peaceful slumber.

“At first, I was just staring at my ceiling, thinking, ‘Make it stop. God, please make it stop. Just make that fucking thing stop. Jesus Christ, just make it stop. Please just make it stop. Why won’t it stop?’” explained Gregory Bellevue ’13. “But then I thought, ‘what if that was my car?’ So I grabbed my brass knuckles and ran downstairs.”

At the scene of the crime, Bellevue and many others found Arnolds attempting to hotwire a 1988 powder-blue Honda Accord. The group quickly subdued him, thanks in no small part to Middletown resident Linda Keller, 34, who weighs in at 446 pounds.

“They had ’im on the ground,” says Keller, “and they was holdin’ his arms down, and one feller done said to me, ‘you just set right up top of his belly there, ya see,’ so I plopped this big ol’ behind right down. I said to myself, ‘Linda, this done be the first time your plus-size posterior ever done you or anybody else a lick of good.’ He was squirmin’ like the dickens but he never got away. No one ever gets out from unnerneath this here tuchus.”

Members of the MPD’s elite automobile theft division arrived on the scene after 14 minutes, where they handcuffed Arnolds. Middletown Mayor Sebastian N. Giuliano plans to hold a ceremony to commemorate the heroic citizens, who will all be awarded keys to the city.

Welcome back, fellow students. Hope you all had a fun summer break. There’s a cricket in my room that won’t stop chirping. I had fun this summer, went cool places and met chill people. Took a road trip to see my friend Mark, the cricket is making a really loud sound as I write this, and I went to Coachella. The cricket is brown and as long as my pinky finger. Mark decided not to go to Coachella.

It’s underneath my bed, which is bolted to the ground. My housing situation is sweet this year — two-room double in the Hewitts with a nice view of Andrus Field. Where are you living? I already tried chasing it away with my arm and then a book and a broom and a shoe I threw at it but the cricket is pretty far under my bed, it’s not going anywhere. At this point my plan is to ignore the cricket and try not to let it bother me. My first day of classes went alright, now I’m just doing some work at my desk while this cricket rubs its wings together just to spite me because it’s pure fucking evil.

It’s been two days. People play loud music in dorms all the time, so this shouldn’t be any different. My roommate has been blasting Hootie & The Blowfish ever since he moved in. I guess they’re okay. The lead singer has a pretty low voice so the cricket’s piercing upper register really cuts through the acoustic guitar. The chirping keeps a steady beat and sometimes I think I can hear my heart pulsing in time with the cricket’s song. I’m personally more of a Dave Matthews fan.

This isn’t really a Physical Plant problem, I don’t think, because crickets aren’t really their specialty, even though I kind of want to call them and ask what insect poisons they keep on hand for this sort of thing or maybe some painkillers or even barbiturates I could use to go to sleep because when I lie on my bed all I can hear is the cricket which has considerable stamina and only paused once for a minute and a half when I was so happy that I lay my head down on the desk and almost started to cry, which I hardly ever do, the last time being when my dog died two years ago. Turns out Olin closes also SciLi and they don’t like people sleeping outside on benches, so I’ll wait it out and lie here with the cricket whom I’ve named Mephistopheles and maybe he’ll die or I’ll die or something will happen to stop Mephistopheles from making the cricket sound he makes. Sometimes I sing along with him on the pitch. I’m pretty good at it now. Anyway, see you in class tomorrow.

9/2/11

Dear freshmen: The Ampersand cordially welcomes you to Wesleyan University. If you’re reading this, you are not the member of your forced triple who was offed for the extra space. Congratulations! If you’re interested in writing for us, please attend our first meeting at 4:30 p.m. on Thursday, September 8th. The meeting will be outside of Allbritton, and sweet and savoury snacks will be provided.

The beginning of college can be a deeply frightening time, as everyone except you meets lots of awesome people and quickly finds their social niche. The competition for friends can be fierce, and if you’re afraid to be aggressive then you WILL be left behind. If you’re socially awkward, unsightly, or just rub people the wrong way, the friendship game may seem like more trouble than it’s worth. But with this handy guide, you’ll soon have potential friends eating out of your hand. Literally, if that’s what you’re into.

Identify friend candidates. Beggars can’t be choosers, so you’re probably going to have to start with low-grade friends. But you have plenty of time to work your way up. It’s called social climbing, and it’s what college is all about. (But never forget the story of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun and lost his wings. Climb too fast, and you’ll end up right back where you started.)

Get your foot in the door. Break the ice with your friend candidates in whatever way you can. This could be as simple as, “Hey neighbor, can I borrow some Preparation H?” but feel to get creative: “Come quick! I think my roommate is going into anaphylactic shock!”

Be memorable. Look around you. Literally every person you see is a potential friend, so you need to make yourself stand out from the crowd. Try sporting a fedora or “liberty spikes.” But don’t come on too strong—advertising your love of flesh hook suspension is likely to scare off more people than it attracts.

Follow up. A budding friendship is like a premature infant—weak, fragile and in need of constant care. Regardless of the strength of your first impression, your friendship will definitely require some (metaphorical) postnatal steroids if you want it to mature. Don’t ever let a prospective pal out of your sight without first getting their number. Then, deploy texts at strategic intervals to ensure that your delicate, shriveled friendship won’t perish in the incubator. The first time you feel that friendship’s miniscule hand grasp your thumb (metaphorically, of course), you’ll know you’ve succeeded.

Seal the deal. Remember that no matter how awesome your new friends may seem, they could stab you in the back at any moment. That’s why any veteran friend-maker will tell you that it’s always best to get the terms of your friendship in writing. That way, if your friends forget your birthday or hook up with your significant other, you can sue the shit out of them.

Let’s face it: coming to college for the first time is scary. You’re in a completely unfamiliar environment, surrounded by copious amounts of illegal intoxicants and hypersexualized adolescents who want nothing more than for you to end up passed out naked in a bathroom on the other side of campus from your dorm, and on top of that, there’s something called “dubstep” that’s permeated the entire school and you’ll have to familiarize yourself with it if you want anything resembling a fulfilling social life.

Thankfully, the Ampersand is committed to easing your transition from a hedonistic, upper middle class suburban lifestyle to that of a hedonistic, upper middle class student who wants to challenge traditional notions of gender by banging everybody. That’s why we’re here to give you the straight dope on college life and talk about everything they’re too scared to discuss in orientation.

Milwaukee’s Best isn’t really the best Milwaukee has to offer. Sad, but true.

If there’s a naked person in your bed, and you don’t remember how they got there, high five! Them or us, it doesn’t really matter.

You may, on some of your late night jaunts, encounter what appears to be a gigantic spider. Don’t be alarmed, because this is in fact Claudius, Wesleyan’s resident giant spider and unofficial mascot. Feel free to take one of the gift baskets he offers you. If he doesn’t offer you any gift baskets but instead starts jabbering indecipherably, then you probably shouldn’t have taken those ‘shrooms from that guy at Eclectic, dude.

Should the worst come to pass and you actually do end up naked in a bathroom across campus from your dorm, don’t panic. Wesleyan is notorious for having a naked dorm, and that’s probably the one you’re in right now, so no worries. Strut your stuff and ignore the revolted glances. They’re just going through the inevitable adjustment period.

Seriously, research dubstep. Otherwise, good luck making friends. Here’s hoping you’re a fan of standing in the corner at parties and wondering to yourself about which programming language is best, NERD.

An intern-level error in the university’s orientation office has wrought one significant change to orientation this year: “In The Company of Others,” a long-term staple of Wesleyan’s orientation program which has for years provided an invaluable opportunity for freshmen to hear upperclassmen stories revolving around identity and understanding, will be replaced with “In The Company of Otters,” an opportunity for over 800 freshmen to interact with three North Pacific sea otters.

“We are not entirely sure how this happened, but we suspect one of our interns may have misread an email subject,” shrugged Director of New Student Orientation Timothy Shiner. “It’s just one letter off, so he figured it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“At any rate, we can’t go back now,” Shiner added, stroking one of the otters, whom he haschristened Devon. “Do you know how hard it is to book otters in Connecticut? It’s a nightmare.”

The event, which boldly steamrolls over more than a decade’s worth of tradition surrounding dozens of poignant “In The Company of Others” speeches, will take place in Fiske 304. Each otter—Devon, Michael, and Waka Flocka Jr.—will be situated on its own marbletop table from 2:00 PM to 3:30, during which time members of the Class of 2015 are expected to come fondle each creature.

“These otters have come a long way, and they are very excited to meet you,” Shiner assured. “They are the heaviest members of the weasel family.”

Additionally, sources reveal, Common Moment may be replaced with “Common Marmut” to reflect the orientation program’s newfound wildlife focus.

Though Wesleyan’s campus made it through the recent hurricane’s landfall relatively unscathed, a new storm gathers on the horizon for three particularly unlucky individuals: Irene Hunter ‘15, Irene Fitzpatrick-Goldberg ‘15, and Irene Reindon ‘15, who share the massive tropical storm’s name.

“It’s a disaster,” said Hunter. “Why did this have to happen to us? It’s sad some people got wet or whatever, but when I saw the name on TV I cried buckets.”

Hunter hails from Florida and had been looking forward to a crisp New England autumn.

“She’s been so irritable,” confided Irene Hunter’s mother. “She stomps around the house, yelling and throwing things. Irene’s always had a temper. Very tempestuous child. Lately when she comes into a room we take shelter. It’s about time she moved on to a new place.”

Fitzpatrick-Goldberg, however, has tried to assume a newly sunny attitude.

“Sure, I avoid saying my name when people meet me. I try to steer clear of the subject. Asking people about their hobbies or their friends from high school usually works.”

Her personalized towels and stationary are securely stowed under her bed, and instead of a name, she drew a Sharpie self-portrait on her nametag.

Fitzpatrick-Goldberg plans to study Environmental Studies and is considering a career in disaster management. She hopes the recent trauma will serve as a mnemonic device for professors.

“Everything will be fine!” she said. “We’ll get through it!”

Irene Reindon said little when asked about the subject and seemed at a loss. “I’m just trying to get by,” she said. “It’ll all blow over soon.”

In response to what He has called a “campaign of slander and sedition,” God wreaked several retaliations upon the staff of the university’s Ampersand humor page this August,the impacts of which were widely felt on both sides of the Atlantic.

“While merited, we feel His response to be overzealous,” said university Public Safety Director David Meyer. “A swath of innocents paid the price for the dereliction of these few persons. Ten-year-old Sammy Smythe, who was killed by Hurricane Irene; Chavis 'Chip' Nottingham, who was trampled and bludgeoned during the London riots: these, among others, are folks who shouldn’t have had to die.”

The first signs of God’s furious discontent were riots throughout the suburbs of London, intended in part to harm Ampersand editor Piers Gelly ’13 at his London home. Unbeknownst to God, whose omniscience is trumped by omnipotence, Gelly had already departed, and the rioters began to loot electronics and valuable clothes in their frustration.

Religion and weather scientists agree that both the 5.8 magnitude earthquake on August 23 andHurricane Irene were God’s further efforts to undo the Ampersand.

In a Sunday message from His spokeswoman Athena Cro-Magnon Bodhisattva at His embassy at the top of MountOlympus, God stated, “I’m really sick of those guys ragging on Jesus.”

God has plagued Ampersand staff members nationwide. High-Rise room 404, occupied by Gelly and writer Benjamin Soloway ’13, was forcibly annexed by the city of Atlanta, who claimed that the floorspace of the room was theirs by dint of its number, which is the same as their telephone area code.

“This is a simultaneously symbolic and pragmatic addition to our Greater Metropolitan Area,” said an aide from the mayor’s office.

Editor Zach Schonfeld ’13 has been cursed to walk the earth, haunting presidential birthplaces and liveblogging his thoughts.

“For too long I’ve been starving to death and haven’t died,” Schonfeld wrote on his blog. “I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman’s flesh. You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You’re in one.”

The city of Boise, Idaho, plans to evict writer Keelin Q.Ryan ’14, whom they believe to be a Jonah.

“All of the accidents that happen here are her fault,”said city council alderman Mick Beep. “Literally all of them.”

The Ampersand released a statement expressing neither sympathy nor empathy for the victims of God’s ministries.

Commenting from the gutted interior of a Carphone Warehouse in Hampstead, Chug Blightly observed, “Not so funny now when you lookin’ it up close, eh bruv? The Big Man’s gonna do it.”

5/3/11

Play-dates, even if you hide when your mom comes to pick you up. Hospital stays, even if you don’t get cured. The universe, in cold, dark silence. The academic year, and if you’re a senior, your time at Wesleyan.

To those of you about to leave: we salute you. Have fun in Brooklyn/Teach For America/your parents’ basement.

Speaking of departure: Ampersand Editor Benjamin Soloway will be stepping down after this issue; he will now edit the Features section, a position that he will find both boring and unbeguiling. He will remain a frequent Ampersand contributor. Piers Gelly will return from France to resume his former position, and Zach Schonfeld will stay put. We have bequeathed upon frequent contributor Daniel Nass the following title: Online Editor/Technical Director/Multimedia Producer/Adjunct Associate Production Manager.

Ampersand staff: many thanks for a remarkable year of growth and synergy. Keep calm and carry on.

Do you have good communication skills? Solid writing skills? Top-notch social skills? Other skills? Enthusiasm? Are you a normal person who wants to be successful? Do you look sexy in business-casual? Do your parents want to pay for you to do unrewarding work without being paid?

Deconstruction Worker: Foucault Co. seeks virile, critical thinking workers to lay bricks, set up drywall, and expose the internal contradictions and irreducible complexity of literary texts. If this seems too difficult, simply talk about phallocentric technocracy. Competency with a jackhammer is a must.

Film Analyzer: Sit outside a multiplex with a an empty guitar case and see if people will pay you to enlighten them as to how tracking shots and the motif of the automobile create a poetic sense of postindustrial ennui in Justin Lin’s Fast Five.

President of Wesleyan University: Combining the best parts of a scholarly polymath and lovable mascot, Wesleyan’s presidency is perfect for anyone who has a passion for expanding the minds of Our Children The Future, fundraising, and sunglasses.

Antisocial Welfare: Get your parents to pay for your miniscule Brooklyn apartment while you blog about the minimalist clowncore scene in Rio De Janeiro, refuse any paying job that contributes to global warming, and misunderstand girls who claim to ind your moustache “Chekhovian.” Make sure to eat lots of limes so you don’t get scurvy.

Crystal Meth Dealer: Get in on the action before Chinese orphans offer a superior product at a fraction of the price.

On the evening of Thursday, April 28th, Argus Arts Correspondent Tallullah Clementine ’13, who has refused to write a single concert review for the arts section for the entire year due to her revulsion toward sweaty campus venues, received a “super top-secret” email detailing a special event called “Pink@DKE” happening on Saturday night. According to the email, “this [was] the only true, deinitive DKE event happening on Saturday night.”

“As a pledge task, we decided to celebrate the feminine in DKE. We had the pledges spray-paint everything pink and dye some random poodles with fruit punch. Yeah, we admit it. We actually did this specifically to attract girls. Now get the fuck over here, Tallulah. We promise we’ll be nice.”

Clementine, however, was sorely disappointed when she arrived at DKE. “The only pink item I saw there was the–ugh–blood on the musicians’ faces,” she said of an incident during Cum Tissue’s opening song, “Pregnant with Shit.”

“I don’t even know what happened, but there were lots of people gathered around taking pictures.” (Pink is Miss Clementine’s favorite color.) In her attempts to uphold her journalistic integrity despite her shock and revulsion at the DKE basement (“They were selling tighty-whities with brown streaks spraypainted onto them that said ‘Trouser Filth’–oh lordy!”), Miss Clementine was elbowed several times, and claimed a DKE brother tried to toilet paper her and her festive pink hoop skirt.

Fortunately, she found solace in the company of a group of Frisbee team pledges who were led in on a leash by their superior.

“Oh, my,” said Miss Clementine with a laugh, “They sure were the darndest thing.”

Ampersand: So I understand your shtick is that you musically interpret wave functions that you graph onstage with TI-83s. With all due respect, what the fuck?Anthony (lead vocals): We all met in Calculus class in high school. We noticed how we’ d each tricked out our graphing calculators, and it was clear to each of us that we were all very passionate about math.Jefferton (bass): It ended up that we all bought our weed from the same guy too, and things sort of just snowballed from there. You know how it is.&: What can we expect at the show on Thursday?Bart (timpani): We’re going to include all the old fan favorites, like “[C1] 2 + [C2] 2.” But we’re also going to branch out into some more experimental material.Anthony: We’ve got this new jam called “(x+3)” and it’ s been getting a really good response. So we’re definitely gonna drop some of that on your faces.

The Walkmen

&: So let me get this straight. You guys bring Sony Walkmen onstage loaded with cassettes that you randomly picked the night before. You play them into microphones on stage, and that’s your whole act?Jefferton (the funny chubby one): Yes.&: Whaaaaaat?

Ghostface Killah & Raekwon

&: So Mr. Killah, you have a ghost for a face. How’s that working out for you?Ghostface Killah (Ironman): It’s been hard. When I was young, the other kids would constantly give me shit about it, you know, like “Hey, is that a ghost on your face or are you just happy to see me?” But then I learned to control my spectral powers and consume the souls of haters for energy, so that helped a lot.&: Fascinating. And Raekwon, how have the tentacles you’ve had surgically attached all over your body affected your development as an artist?Raekwon (Chef): It’s really allowed me to step up my game to unspeakable levels. You have no idea the sort of shit I can pull off. I don’ t want to spoil anything for Thursday, but here’s a hint: not all of the tentacles have suckers on them.&: And Ghostface, you are also apparently Ironman.Ghostface: Yeah, I use the armor to get from show to show. Rap is my passion, but I’ve always had a soft spot for using my repulsors to incinerate wrongdoers.&: One last question. What is The Wu-Tang Secret?Raekwon: (Rips out interviewer’s heart from chest cavity and eats it)

While much of Wesleyan’s student body greeted news of Osama Bin Laden’s death with patriotic exclamations and cheers of relief, members of the class of 2011 anticipate difficulty adjusting to a post-Bin Laden job climate. Film major Daniel Hertz ’11 is especially feeling the hit.

“I was planning to, like, make an indie documentary about driving around the country next year looking for Osama while stopping at every Taco Bell we pass along the way,” explains Hertz, who has already secured money for the project through the Tölölyan Fund for the Study of Diasporas and Transnationalism. “The working title was Tacosama Grande. My 10-year-old sister agreed to come on the trip and everything.”

For Hertz, post-grad employment ideas have been suddenly, and cruelly, snuffed by Bin Laden’s death. “What am I supposed to do now, work at fucking Foot Locker? Fuck Foot Locker.”

Esperanza Magdalene ’14, Wesleyan’s so-called “Fauver Nun,” says that she made the first social blunder of her college life during freshman orientation.

“I took the words ‘Foss Cross’ literally,” she said, kneading the hems of her heavy habit in embarrassment. “While my classmates were fucking the gender binary, I was alone on Foss Hill, crucifying and effigy of Our Lord.”

As the university’s only Carmelite Nun, Magdalene spends much of her time in prayer and meditation. But her life at Wesleyan has not been entirely pure.

“University is a place of temptations and depravities,” she said, in an exclusive interview with the Ampersand. “I’ve never before devoted so much time to onanism,” she confessed. “And I never imagined that I would find so many ways to use rosary beads.”

Despite having succumbed to various sexual improprieties, Magdalene says she remains committed to her vows and to the Carmelite order.

“Mother Superior only allowed me to attend university because the other nuns would not stop singing about solving a problem like me,” Magdalene said. “I absolutely mustn’t betray her trust, or she’ll call me a ‘flibbertigibbet’ ‘a will-o’-the-wisp,’ or ‘a clown.’”

Frustrated by the multiplicity of norms in sexual expression and the attendant difficulties in adapting safer-sex techniques, the university’s Peer Health Advocates (PHAs) have decided to penetrate the status quo with a deconstructive event.

“It’s called Penis and Vagina Jousting,” said PHA Scotus Grotsky ’12. “We ram a giant penis and the giant vagina from the WesWell offices into each other and have a contest to see who wins.”

The event promises to become a yearly tradition in the vein of Groundhog Day.

“It’s like, if the dick wins, it’s six more weeks of patriarchy for the semester,” said awed prefrosh Ken McDowd ’15. “Fuck yes! I’m so excited, go Wes!”

Opposition is nearly as widespread as support for the event, with frontrunners for the title of genital-bearer worried about the possibility of sore wrists and pelvic sprains.

Reproductive rights advocacy rights groups have also expressed concerns, in the words of one protester, “about the heteronormativity of the act in microcosm.”

The administration has voiced its concerns as well.

“[The event is] just lat-out disrespectful,” said Merkin Gurk, Dean of the Class of 2013. “It detracts from the regal rectitude of our other fine traditions, such as the saga of the Douglas Cannon.”

Fetish season is upon us, so hose off your latex chaps and bring your marble bust of the Marquis De Sade out of thebox labeled “baseball stuff” in your attic. This year, the Ampersand has paid a visit to the High Council of the Licentious and the Wicked to bring you this list of the year’s hottest perversions.

John Deere Riding Lawnmowers: Deere hunters can’t get enough of the rumbling motors on their favorite residential lawn tractors. For extra enjoyment, sit on a hard-boiled egg and ride over gravel.

Powdered wigs: Rock me Amadeus.

Tarring and Feathering: Popularized by the popular Foxxx News program Tar Me Up, Feather Me Down with Joe the Plumber, made possible by viewers like you (and Koch Industries).

Astronauts: Houston, we have an enormous, throbbing erection.

Hairnets: Either regular or pubic.

Real-time location data: The ability to achieve a state of sexual arousal only when aware of one’s precise geographic coordinates. Consider buying a new Garmin™ Vibrating GPS.

Blowholes: Dolphins give great blowjobs.

Brechtian Alienation Devices: Based on Weimar modernist Bertolt Brecht’s (1898 – 1956) theory of Verfremdungseffekt, which holds that works of art should not assume false airs of realism that causes the spectator to identify complacently with the characters or action. Rather, a work of art (according to the theory) should employ alienation effects that lead the spectator to gyrate feverishly with erotic glee until the floor is covered with the bounty of his seed.

Feet: You are a deviant and a threat to American values. Get yourself to the nearest castration clinic before you hurt somebody.

Sources have confirmed moderate-volume utterance of the word “vagina” in Shanklin 107 Monday morning, reportedly between 10:34 and 10:36 AM, during a Seminar in Human Biology lecture.

“It was just really uncalled for, completely out of context,” reported Dylan Held ’13, a biology major who was highly shaken by the incident. “[Professor Lodell] was explaining topics in female reproductive processes, and—it just kinda shot out of her.”

“We all thought maybe it was a Freudian slip,” Held added. “I don’t know much about Marxism.”

“Kinda fucked up,” concurred classmate Amanda Goswell ’12, an FGSS major hoping to complete her NSM credits. “Let’s keep vagina fetishes out of the classroom and away from our youth.”

Lodell insists that next lecture’s fucksaw demonstration will be far more course-appropriate.

He licked my ear. And bit it. Like a bunny nibbling on a carrot, he delicately grazed my cartilage and kissed the lobe. What the fuck. Is this supposed to be sexy?

At a party this weekend, I became another victim of the disturbing rise in sexual fetishes on our campus, and frankly, this trend is pissing me off. What happened to chivalry? Is it dead, along with the proper repression of all sexual deviance?

Maybe I’m a bit old fashioned, but sex is something sacred, meant to be shared between two, three, or up to twelve people. Instead of making out with each other’s ears, sexually active college students should be exploring more traditional forms of lovemaking, such as the missionary position, when a couple climbs on top of the Memorial Chapel to fornicate and sing songs they learned at church camp.

They could even take a hint from the Kama Suture, when a lover stabs hir partner with a kitchen knife, stitches it up, and proceeds to penetrate the healing wound. Is this sort of simple, sensual intimacy too much to ask from our student body?

I cannot even remember the last time a nice young man took me out to dinner and a movie before chopping off my hair and braiding it into a rope to use for autoerotic asphyxiation in a public restroom. It has been years since I have even had a boyfriend willing to meet my parents, dress like a giant baby, and let me breastfeed him while watching Sesame Street.

I, like other Wes students, fancy myself a proper liberal, but where are we willing to draw the line between what is erotic and what is just plain weird? Keep it classy, Wesleyan, and keep your tongue out of my ears.